TOW all the what ifs
by AEM77
Summary: Sometimes Monica wonders 'What If'
1. TOW the birth

_When we're forty if neither of us are married, what do you say you and I get together and have one?_

It had been a roller coaster of a day. The highlight of course had been getting to meet and hold little Ben, her nephew. Her nephew! She was an aunt! Ross was a father! It was almost too amazing to be believed. But it _was_ real. She'd held the evidence herself and run her finger along his smooth chubby little cheek.

Standing in the hospital room with Ben in her arms, the strange mix of antiseptic, floral bouquets, and baby assaulting her senses simultaneously, she'd felt the overwhelming urge to weep though whether for joy or sadness she really couldn't say.

This beautiful precious new life had finally arrived. It was amazing, incredible, miraculous…but it wasn't her miracle. As much as she may be a part of Ben's life through the years, he was Ross' son not hers and she can't shake the terrible sense of dread that it will always be her fate to be standing on the sidelines celebrating the arrival of someone else's child.

Which is just so damn unfair she thinks bitterly punching her pillow in frustration as she tosses onto her side once more unable to fall asleep despite the long and tiring vigil in the hospital. She'd been the one who wanted to have children. She's the one who had spent hours agonizing over names and debating the spacing between siblings. Ross had never once talked about becoming a father, even after he and Carol had gotten married, and now the opportunity, what should have been _her_ opportunity, had fallen in his lap.

Her mind goes back to her mother's voice over the payphone speculating that this may be her only chance to become a grandmother and she has to pinch her eyes shut tightly to stop from crying again. Isn't it bad enough that her own doubts and insecurities are bouncing wildly around in her mind? Now she has to add her mother's criticism as well?

She wasn't so old that the prospect of meeting someone, falling in love, getting married, and starting a family was completely out of the question. She wasn't even thirty, for crying out loud. None of her friends, really no one she even knew well, was anywhere near to settling down. So why did it feel like she was so far behind, like she was running out of time?

The problem was that it was different for her friends. Chandler, Joey, and Phoebe seemed to spend most of their time actively avoiding commitment, so she couldn't really compare her timeline to theirs. Ross and Rachel's love lives were nothing to be jealous of either, true. But Ross had at least been married and now had Ben. And Rachel could have been married had she stayed with Barry. No one was even offering Monica the option.

Well that wasn't entirely true. Chandler of all people had offered to have a child with her if no one else came along before they were forty. She'd been so focused on the 'if neither of us are married' part of his offer that she hadn't really given the 'getting together' bit consideration. But now, here in her room, in the early hours of the morning as she stares unseeingly at the ceiling she lets her mind wander a bit to wonder what if she and Chandler didn't find anyone else before they were forty? What if they did get together? What would that even look like?

Obviously he was kidding and it isn't worth a second thought. Except she can't seem to think of anything else. Taking only a quick minute to feel slightly guilty for her overactive imagination she gives into the urge and allows her daydream to command her full attention.

 _She imagines herself in a hospital bed, much like the one where she'd visited Carol, though in all likelihood the actual birth may very well have taken place in another room altogether. She's sweaty and weary but still glowing with her swollen belly before her. Chandler would be his usual nervous self, bouncing around in place, cracking jokes, some funny, some not, but always at the wrong time. She'd smile at him though and he'd look down at her. She imagines a mix of adoration and pride in his glance, which she surprised to realize isn't so hard to do. Chandler may be a sarcastic ass ninety-nine percent of the time but he does seem to reserve some sincere words and glances for her, always reassuring her that she's attractive, smart, worthy._

 _The labor would be painful but not out of the ordinary and Chandler would stand beside her the whole time, squeezing her hand so tightly she'd forget the pain of childbirth for a moment to chastise him to ease his grip. When it was over and one of the nurses would bring them their daughter- Monica pauses here for a moment to consider their baby's gender before deciding on her original idea of a little girl- Chandler would hold her up to his face to whisper his hello before resting her gently into Monica's arms._

 _As their little daughter sleeps against her chest, Chandler would lean down and ever so slightly place his lips to hers. Monica must be more asleep than awake at this point as she allows herself to fully imagine what kissing Chandler would be like. Though Chandler's offer had been a contingency one, her once daydreaming now fully dreaming mind has clearly reshaped this partnership into one of choice._

 _"_ _You were amazing," he'd tell her reverently._

 _"_ _Look what we made," she'd smile happily looking down at the small face peeking from the swaddling blanket, a perfect mix of her and Chandler's features._

 _"_ _We did good," he'd agree before kissing her once more._

The following morning, Monica wakes later than usual on account of having stayed awake most of the night. When she makes her way out of her bedroom she finds Chandler and Joey already at her dining table.

"Hey sleepyhead," Chandler greets throwing her a lopsided grin before going back to his newspaper.

Joey is saying something to her now, something about Ross and Ben but Monica isn't really hearing him as the memory of her forgotten dream comes back to her causing her to flush from head to toe.

"Sorry, what was that Joey?" Monica asks with a little shake of her head, hoping to physically wipe the memory of Chandler and her and a baby from her mind.

"I said we're heading over to see Ross and Ben again in a minute. Wanna come along?"

"Yeah," she agrees excited to get a chance to see her nephew again. Somehow she's feeling less resentful about the whole baby thing than she had yesterday. After all if worse comes to worse she and Chandler can always get together and have one, and really that doesn't sound half bad to her at all.


	2. TOW the flashback

_You are one of my favorite people and the most beautiful woman I have ever known in real life._

She refills her wine glass pouring just a little bit more than quite constitutes a serving and plops unceremoniously onto her sofa. The apartment is unnaturally quiet and while twenty-four hours ago she would have appreciated the stillness, now she finds she misses the clatter that always seems to follow Phoebe wherever she goes. The silence is a reminder that she is really and truly alone in the apartment and that her old roommate isn't coming back.

Alone. She may as well get the word tattooed on her forehead she thinks miserably taking a long sip of her drink. Why did Phoebe want to leave so badly? Was she really so hard to live with? _Was_ this why she didn't have a boyfriend?

Monica is no dummy. She knows that she can be a bit difficult sometimes, sure. But so could everyone. Did Phoebe really think she was so easy to put up with? The incense? The guitar playing? The relentless discussion of auras and past lives? But Monica put up with all of that and would put up with much more, because Phoebe was worth it. Their friendship was worth it. Monica doesn't doubt that Phoebe values their friendship too. But that just goes to show how awful Monica's faults must be. Even her closest friends can't handle her in close quarters.

So she liked a clean house, order, method. Was that so wrong? Honestly she can't understand how the rest of them can live without these things. Once she had happened upon Phoebe's sock drawer and she couldn't for the life of her figure out how the woman got dressed in the morning. It had held as many bobby pins, random pieces of mail, and scarves in it as socks and the socks themselves weren't even matched together! Even to this day she longs to barge in and help the poor little things find their mates. Well actually she wouldn't ever get that chance now, because Phoebe had up and taken herself and all her socks away. Taken them away because she couldn't stand living with Monica. The thought leaves her wanting to cry so she just takes a big swig of wine instead hoping to at least transform her sorrow into drunkenness if nothing else.

At least Chandler's new roommate had found her attractive enough she thinks taking a little pleasure in the fact that she isn't totally repugnant to the opposite sex. Monica has worked hard over the years to shed the weight of her girlhood and even harder to discard the insecurities that came along with being heavy. She's not ashamed to admit that she likes how she looks now and she's pretty sure most men do also.

She likes who she is on the inside too, even if no one else seems to, she thinks, defiantly finishing off her wine in a final swig. She rises a bit unsteady to refill her glass but its getting difficult to pour without spilling so she discards the glass all together opting to bring the bottle back with her instead. So she'll die alone. So what? If no one is going to love who she is, warts and all, who needs them? _She_ likes herself, so there.

And Chandler likes her too. So double there! She thinks triumphantly remembering their conversation that afternoon. What had he said again? That she was one of his favorite people and that he thought she was beautiful. No, no. Not just beautiful, _the most_ beautiful. Chandler thinks she should have a boyfriend. Chandler loves my warts, she thinks smiling for the first time all night.

Chandler was so great, she muses drunkenly. Sure he was always cracking jokes and never taking anything seriously, but with her at least, he was always so attentive and kind. Always noticing when she was struggling, like today. Always knowing just what to say to make her feel better. She feels warm all over remembering their embrace from earlier and how with a few simple words and a hug her friend had brought her so much comfort.

It really had been a pretty fantastic hug. She'd even wondered for a fraction of a second if the hug might evolve into, well into something else. Which would be crazy, she reminds herself with a laugh. This was Chandler she was talking about. He was her friend, her very good friend. And they just simply didn't think of each other that way.

If she hadn't single-handedly nearly polished off an entire bottle of wine, this is probably where her thoughts would veer into a much safer direction. But a quick peek at the bottle balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table quickly confirms that she's about 2 or 3 sips away from finishing the once full bottle of Chardonnay.

All at once she feels very drunk and finds she needs to lie rather than sit on her couch in order to keep the room from spinning. She's finally found a comfortable position resting with her eyes closed when her traitorous mind begins to wander. What if she and Chandler did think of each other as more than friends? What if their hug from earlier today had lead to something more? What would it be like to actually kiss Chandler?

Her first thought is that it would be a bit unpleasant. Chandler can be so spastic, all flopping limbs and nervous energy. She initially imagines it may be like kissing a teenager or worse a cocker spaniel. But even as she tries to picture this, the Chandler in her imagination refuses to comply with these unflattering comparisons.

 _"_ _This is nice." Even as he's complementing their embrace he moves to break it pulling his body apart from hers to better look at her. She thinks maybe this would be the moment that Chandler would reach for her, bringing her in for a kiss. It doesn't feel quite right however that Chandler would make the first move. And despite this being her fantasy where she could really imagine anything at all, she finds for reasons she'd rather not examine that she wants this to feel real._

 _She'd spend a minute looking into his eyes, searching them for confirmation of what she already knows before ever so slowly pulling his lips down to her own. The kiss would be slow at first both of them hesitant about how the other would respond. But after a moment or two, their confidence would grow and with it, their passion. She flushes with embarrassment and pleasure as she imagines Chandler deepening their kiss, still slow but now equally sensual. She imagines his hands rising from her waist to cup her face holding her to his lips._

 _Though she would have never thought it before this moment she feels pretty confident that this is probably a fairly faithful recreation of kissing Chandler. Though the rest of the world may only know the insecure and immature version hiding behind an endless series of sarcastic remarks, Monica knows he can be so much more. She's fairly certain that his lack of confidence in matters of the heart and the bedroom would only make him that much more conscientious, focusing all of his attention on making sure she'd be thoroughly and fully satisfied._

Just as she's picturing Chandler moving her towards her bedroom, lips never leaving her own, she's rudely dragged from her imaginings by the flesh and bones version walking into her apartment.

"Oh no," he admonishes with a chuckle. "What do we have here?"

She's much too drunk and embarrassed to respond with more than a glare, which only causes him to laugh outright.

"Monica Geller, I do believe you are plastered."

Monica only groans in response. Now that her fantasy bubble has been popped, she's much more aware of how drunk and ill she feels.

"C'mon. Let's get you to bed," he says kindly helping her from the couch and carefully walking her to her bedroom.

After helping her under the covers, he sits momentarily beside her. "I meant what I said before," he tells her now serious, brushing her hair from her face, "You're gonna be alright. You know that right?"

She nods in response, overwhelming sleepy now that the warm comforting feeling she'd gotten from his hug earlier is back. Taking his hand from her temples she gives it a soft kiss before releasing him. This wasn't the bedroom moment she'd been fantasizing about earlier, but it is so much better. Chandler is her friend. He'll always be her friend. And he loves her, warts and all.


	3. TOW the jellyfish

_What? Am I not boyfriend material?_

Monica feels the tiniest bit sorry as she waves goodbye as Chandler closes the door to number twenty behind him. She knows that he'd been kidding about wanting to be her boyfriend, but her rejection of him still feels a little too real. Serves him right though, she thinks grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and sitting down to the dining room table once more. He knows it's been forever since she's as much as kissed a guy let alone had a real boyfriend. He should know better than to tease her. She was probably going to end up dying alone at this rate. She deserved to be pitied, not mocked.

God. Why was it so hard? In a city of almost eight million people surely there had to be someone she could date, someone out there who would make a good boyfriend. But everywhere she turned, every awful first date she endured only turned up duds. Was she being too picky? Was that the problem? What was Monica looking for in a boyfriend anyway? What exactly _did_ she consider 'boyfriend material'?

Well not to be too superficial but he ought to be handsome if he could possibly manage it. She pictures Richard in her mind, tall, sophisticated, mature. God, he had been attractive. Chandler really couldn't compare to Richard's rugged masculinity. She laughs a bit recalling her friend's failed attempt to grow a mustache back when she and Richard were together. But it wouldn't be entirely truthful to say Chandler wasn't cute. In fact, that would be an outright lie. Chandler _was_ cute, very cute. Actually much cuter than Richard if she's being honest. He may not be ruggedly handsome but he definitely had the monopoly on cuteness. Out of nowhere she has the memory of finding him sleeping on her couch one night long ago. Before he'd caught her staring at him and spoiled the moment by screaming his head off, she remembers thinking how adorable he was, features relaxed and peaceful snuggled up with his pillow. And if she's being honest she has to admit he can even be traditionally handsome on occasion as well. He looked great in a tux for instance, a fact even Phoebe and Rachel had admitted one drunken girls night after they'd all attended Ross' big event at the museum, the dark suit coat bringing out the blue of his eyes. Alright, alright, she concedes to herself taking a big swig of water, her mouth suddenly dry. Chandler's handsome. Point for Chandler.

But it wasn't all about looks. Her ideal boyfriend would also have to be intelligent. And funny. And kind. And yeah, sure, she guesses her friend had these qualities as well. She knows Chandler's smart. Though he doesn't parade it in their faces the way Ross was wont to do, she knows he did well in NYU. He also reads much more than the rest of them, and all kinds of things too from newspapers to novels. He definitely hands down was better at math than anyone she knew. He would claim his job was mindless and easy, but she doubts anyone else in their gang could calculate the WENUS or ANUS or whatever it was that he did all day. And sure no one was going to argue that Chandler wasn't witty. But that was his signature thing. His jokes were usually pretty solid too, when they weren't veering into adolescent territory. Though if she's being honest he can be pretty cute then too. There were times when his humor could come across as mean spirited and he did seem to take a particular pleasure in making fun of them all, but she knows that he really is kind hearted. He's the kind of guy to tease you for being broke even as he's writing out your rent check, she thinks fondly. But obviously she thought he had these qualities. She thinks all her friends are smart and funny and kind, well funny and kind at least. And she's not running off to date any of them.

When it comes right down to it, a real boyfriend would have to be someone who was serious about relationships, someone who would commit to her. And Chandler definitely didn't fit the bill here. She'd never seen someone so afraid of commitment in her life, and she was friends with Joey! Though she guesses she can't really blame the guy given his childhood. If she had a mother who wrote erotica using real life for inspiration and a father who ran off with the pool boy she may not be too enthusiastic about relationships either. And it wasn't totally true that Chandler ran from every relationship. He'd tried to have a relationship with Janice. Janice of all people! Even giving her a drawer from his dresser. Monica has to admit that was a pretty sweet gesture. And he'd ended their relationship, not to avoid commitment, but to give Janice's marriage a chance so her baby wouldn't grow up in a broken home like he had. She gets the feeling that if Chandler could get some kind of assurance that a relationship would last, that he wouldn't get hurt, he'd be the first one signing up. But of course in real life you didn't get that kind of promise. You're always taking a risk and she doubts Chandler would ever take that chance. It would have to be for a girl he really trusted, someone he knew wouldn't hurt him.

It's crazy and stupid and never going to happen, but as she's sitting at the table lost in thought, mindlessly sliding her water bottle from hand to hand, she let's herself imagine just for a second. What if she were that girl? What if Chandler took that chance with her? What if Chandler were her boyfriend?

 _She'd answer the knock at the door to reveal Chandler, no Dorf or funny voice to be found. They'd smile at one another and he'd come into the apartment as she finished gathering up her jacket and purse._

 _"_ _You look great," he'd say sincerely, then in jest, "Hot date?"_

 _"_ _I hope so," she'd reply moving close to him and bringing her hands to his chest to straighten his tie._

 _"_ _Lucky guy," he'd answer moving his hands to her hips._

 _"_ _Maybe, if he plays his cards right."_

 _They'd kiss then, unconsciously closing the space between them._

 _"_ _Believe me," he'd say at last breaking apart, "I have no problem staying in all night doing this" he'd kiss her once more, passionate but quick. "But we should probably head out if we're going to make our reservation."_

 _Dinner would be perfect with easy conversation and good food. She's already had many a wonderful dinner with Chandler as her friend. It isn't even really a stretch to imagine reaching to hold hands across the table, or to imagine knees bumping under it._

 _After dinner they'd forgo the cab ride to walk back to the apartment falling into an easy pace, hands linked all the while. All in all she's amazed at how easy it is to imagine. She's struck by how similar dating Chandler would be to their platonic relationship. Just deepening the connection that was already there. Well that and the possibility of a new physical relationship. The dryness in her mouth from earlier comes back now in full force and she gulps the last of her water in an attempt to alleviate it._

 _They'd end up back at her place and settle in on the couch to watch a movie or some television. It wouldn't really matter, as whatever they'd chosen would soon be forgotten in favor of discovering one another._

She's just adjusting now to put her feet up on the neighboring chair, wanting to get comfortable as she falls deeper into her daydream when she brushes her foot against the leg of her seat. Still sore from her jellyfish sting from earlier she gives a yelp of pain effectively jolting her from her reverie. As she rubs her foot gently she admonishes herself for her overactive imagination. What had she been thinking? Yes, she can admit that Chandler is 'boyfriend material' and that one day he's going to make some girl very happy. She can even admit that when that day comes she'll be the tiniest bit jealous. But as much as great as he is and as much as she loves him, for her, he'll always just be the guy who peed on her foot.


	4. TOW the truth about London

**As always thanks so much to everyone for reading and reviewing!  
**

 _Are you kidding? You're the most beautiful woman in most rooms._

Sitting awkwardly upon the counter of the overly bright bathroom, knees dipping dangerously into the porcelain sink, Monica stares forlornly into the mirror. Bringing her face as close to the glass as her vision will allow she peers disapprovingly at her reflection. Was that a crow's foot? She wonders, noticing the just visible lines at the side of her eye. Already?

She pauses briefly from her intense self-scrutiny to take a long draw of her cocktail through the tiny straw provided by the hotel bartender who'd seemed just a tad too aware of the less than celebratory nature of her drinking. So much so, that she'd elected to take her latest drink back to her hotel room rather than remain drinking solo at the bar. A move she's starting to regret as the slurping sounds coming from the aforementioned straw remind her that she's just finished her third cocktail.

Monica speculates the drinks must be watered down, as she's not nearly as drunk as she'd like to be. Despite her attempts to down as much alcohol in as little time as humanly possible her reflection still stares back at her, not even remotely blurry and just as obviously showing the ravages of time as before.

Aging sucks, she thinks sadly climbing down from her perch atop the counter and leaving the bathroom to flop miserably onto the meticulously made hotel bed. Aging was terrible, the most terrible thing really. Was this how the rest of her life was going to go? Watching helplessly as her looks started to deteriorate, everyday realizing that she was just a little bit less attractive then the day before. Until finally, boom, one morning she'd wake up and that would be that, any hope of being desirable gone. Monica had spent most of her teen years feeling unattractive due to her weight issues and now after a short reprieve was she really doomed to a future of repulsiveness? The thought leaves her feeling physically pained.

And it isn't just the normal march of time she has to contend with. Apparently, she's showing signs of accelerated aging. She still can't believe that horrible man had thought she was Ross' mother! She was Ross' _little_ sister for heaven's sake! _And_ she can't believe that Ross is getting married again. For a second time! Before she's even come close to making it down the aisle. She twists her fingers mindlessly around her naked ring finger. The truth is that this awful reality of aging, the relentless trickle of sand through the hourglass leaving its marks at the corners of her eyes and the slow inevitable sag of her flesh from the persistent tug of gravity, all of it would be bearable if she could just have someone to grow old with.

To think she had once naively cherished the idea of growing old. Of course in these imaginings she'd always pictured two sets of wrinkled hands gently clasped together. There's no shame in aging, not really. It's the loneliness, the sense of running out of time, that's eating at her, closing up her throat and making it difficult to breathe. If she can't find someone to love her now, in her prime, what are the chances someone is going to choose her later as she begins her undignified march to old age? It's all so unfair.

You know what I need? She thinks willing herself upright on the bed despite the overwhelming desire to get under the covers and hide. I need more alcohol. With this edifying thought she grabs her purse from the dresser and with a quick check to me sure it contains her room card, she heads to the elevators with a newfound determination to drink away her worries, judgmental bartender and diluted drinks be damned.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mustering up as much dignity as she can, Monica scribbles her room number on the tab the bartender lays before her, a raised eyebrow his only acknowledgement that he remembers her from before. She forgoes the straw (drinking from them caused wrinkles, no?) and downs half the tumbler in a single gulp. Her cheeks flush brightly as the alcohol hits her system, or maybe it's just the anticipation of the alcohol at this point, and she sits a little straighter on her stool perusing the hotel bar. She doesn't do much drinking in hotels but she thinks she can pick out who's who amongst her fellow patrons. There's a bridal party seated on couches in the lounge area, sipping champagne and chatting cheerfully in their matching rose colored gowns. They look young and happy and Monica hates them instantly. Then there's an older woman seated alone nursing a cocktail and looking for all the world like she'd rather be anywhere else. Monica takes in the woman's naked ring finger and messy bun of once dark hair accentuated by wisps of fly away grays. When the woman's watery blue eyes scan the room and meet hers, Monica turns away quickly in embarrassment. The woman's eerie resemblance to the future spinster version of herself makes Monica hate her as well.

Next she turns her attention to what is clearly a contingent of business men milling up at the bar, still donning their suit jackets and showing a familiarity with the staff that suggests a semi-regular patronship. One or two of them shoot her covert glances out of the sides of their eyes that cause a small thrill to shoot through her. None of them are particularly her type but it's been awhile since she's been on the receiving end of that sort of look and she'd forgotten how gratifying it could be. She goes from despondent to hopeful in an instant. Maybe she'll die alone one day, but that doesn't mean she needs to be alone tonight.

She continues to scan the area for potential hook-ups, but is coming up empty. She isn't even being all that picky, but it must really not be her night as the aging businessmen and surly barkeeper seem to be the only men around. What would Joey do in this situation? She tries to channel her most promiscuous friend in an attempt to end this miserable evening in somebody's bed. Well he'd probably charm his way into someone's room and then take off all his clothes while they fixed him lemonade, she thinks with a laugh remembering her own first introduction to Joey Tribbiani. As outlandish as he'd been that afternoon she has to admit he'd looked pretty good. And in his defense she might have been the only woman in New York to ever pass on his unconventional approach to propositioning. That's what she needs tonight. She needs to find a Joey. Someone with absolutely no baggage and no expectations beyond a quick roll in the hay. But where in the world would she find this person? It's not like they go around wearing badges, she thinks in frustration.

She's just motioned to the bartender for another round when it strikes her. She doesn't need to find a Joey here in London. The man himself _is_ here. What's more, she knows exactly where to find him. Hastily she signs for her drink and for the second time that night grabs it to go, rushing towards the elevators. Monica is not usually one for impulsivity but tonight feels different. She _needs_ this. Well maybe not _this_ , but she needs _something_. Something has been missing in her life now for months and while being with Joey may not be the best idea at least it will be something.

She arrives at Joey's room and tries to preemptively avoid any second thoughts by taking a long draw of her cocktail while pounding on the door. It swings open to reveal a pajama-clad Chandler and Monica's mood goes from excited to despondent in an instant as he informs her that Joey's already run off to hook up with the other, probably younger, bridesmaid. Just like that, the weight of all her self-doubt comes to rest once more upon her shoulders and she doesn't even try to hide her misery from Chandler.

"You're not still upset about what that guy told you, are you?"

"Wouldn't you be?" She asks in a huff. She'd expect Chandler of all people to understand her wallowing.

"Look. It's been a really emotional time, you know? And you've had a lot to drink. And you just gottta let that go. Okay? I mean you were the most beautiful woman in the room tonight."

"Really?" His words, spoken so effortlessly and honestly, throw the whole self-image she's been crafting for herself all evening into confusion. Didn't he see the crow's feet? The way her skin had begun to hang from her collarbones?

For a moment she sees herself the way he claims to see her: beautiful, valued, loved. It doesn't just transform her despair into happiness, but rather amplifies it as well so that emotion swells inside of her literally threatening to spill out. For the briefest of seconds she wonders what it would be like to kiss him right now.

"Are you kidding? You're the most beautiful woman in most rooms."

And like a string that's been holding her back has been cut, she throws herself against him and kisses him with all the passion she can muster. Though she can sense his shock he kisses her back almost immediately, matching her intensity.

It should feel wrong, or weird at the very least. But it doesn't feel weird at all. It feels like the most natural thing in the world and so, so right. Monica's shouldn't be surprised. After all, she's been wondering _what if_ for years.


End file.
